Sidor som bilder
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Srnoxg climber of the mountain's side,
Though thou the vale disdain,
Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don
The stormy gloom is roll'd ;
The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,
Where dewy daises gleam ;
And here the sun-flower of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.
But here the lizard seeks the sun,
Here coils in light the snake;
And here the fire-tuft hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane!
For, oh, I love these banks of rock,
This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
And wakes the earliest bee!
As spirits from eternal day
Look down on earth secure,
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey
A world in miniature!
A world not scorn'd by Him who made
Even weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,
And splendid in his light.
Light! not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm-loved mountains spread,
Or widely teaching sun and star,
Thy glorious thoughts are read:
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land—
A page on which the angels look,
Which insects understand 1
And here, O light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,
Thy bright small hand is here.
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,
Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide—
And that, Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings
Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heaven in madness flings
The blind foam of its might !
Do I not hear his thunder roll—
The roar that ne'er is still 1
'Tis mute as death !—but in my soul
It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stone

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss
O'er pigmy valleys lone!
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,
Ambitious of the sky,
Thy feather o'er the steepest edge
Of mountains mushroom high.
O God of marvels who can tell
What myriad living things
On these gray stones unseen may dwell;
What nations, with their kings?
I feel no shock, I hear no groan,
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone—
A hundred ruin’d realms'
Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impell'd by wo or whim,
May crawl some atom cliffs to see—
A tiny world to him
Lo! while he pauses, and admires
The works of Nature's might,
Spurn’d by my foot, his world expires,
And all to him is night!
O God of terrors! what are we?—
Poor insects, spark'd with thought!
Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee
Could smite us into nought!
But shouldst thou wreck our father-land,
And mix it with the deep,
Safe in the hollow of thine hand
Thy little ones would sleep.

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Thou art not dead, my son' my son :
But God hath hence removed thee:
Thou canst not die, my buried boy,
While lives the sire who loved thee.
How canst thou die, while weeps for thee
The broken heart that bore thee;
And e'en the thought that thou art not
Can to her soul restore thee!
Will grief forget thy willingness
To run before thy duty :
The love of all the good and true,
That fill'd thine eyes with beauty :
Thy pitying grace, thy dear request,
When others had oftended,
That made thee look as angels look,
When great good deeds are ended ?
The strength with which thy soul sustain'd
Thy woes and daily wasting !
Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure
That thou from us wast hasting !
And that last smile, which seem'd to say—
“Why cannot ye restore me!”
Thy look’d farewell is in my heart,
And brings thee still before me.
What though the change, the fearful change,
From thought, which left thee never,
To unremembering ice and clay,
Proclaim thee gone for ever ?
Thy half-closed lids, thy upturn'd eyes,
Thy still and lifeless tresses;
Thy marble lip, which moves no more,
Yet more than grief expresses;
The silence of thy coffin'd snow,
By awed remembrance cherish'd;
These dwell with me, like gather'd flowers,
That in their April perish'd.
Thou art not gone, thou canst not go,
My bud, my blasted blossom 1

The pale rose of thy faded face
Still withers in my bosom.
O Mystery of Mysteries,
That took'st my poor boy from me!
What art thou, Death 4 all-dreaded Death 1
If weakness can o'ercome thee ?
We hear thee not ' we see thee not,
E'en when thy arrows wound us;
But, viewless, printless, echoless,
Thy steps are ever round us.
Though more than life a mystery
Art thou, the undeceiver,
Amid thy trembling worshippers
Thou seest no true believer.
No!—but for life, and more than life,
No fearful search could find thee:
Tremendous shadow ! who is He
That ever stands behind thee!
The Power who bids the worm deny
The beam that o'er her blazes,
And veils from us the holier light
On which the seraph gazes,
Where burns the throne of Him, whose name
The sunbeams here write faintly;
And where my child a stranger stands
Amid the blest and saintly,
And sobs aloud—while in his eyes
The tears, o'erflowing, gather—
“They come not yet!—until they come,
Heaven is not Heaven, my father
Why come they not why comes not she
From whom thy will removes me?
Oh, does she love me—love me still
I know my mother loves me!
Then send her soon and with her send
The brethren of my bosom
My sisters too! Lord, let them all
Bloom round the parted blossom'
The only pang I could not bear
Was leaving them behind me:
I cannot bear it. Even in heaven
The tears of parting blind me!”

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SLEEP to the homeless, thou art home;
The friendless find in thee a friend;
And well is he, where'er he roam,
Who meets thee at his journey's end.
Thy stillness is the planet's speed;
Thy weakness is unmeasured might;
Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steed—
Worlds flash and perish in thy sight.
The daring will to thee alone—
The will and power are given to thee—
To lift the veil of the unknown,
The curtain of eternity—
To look uncensured, though unbidden,
On marvels from the seraph hidden'
Alone to be—where none have been 1
Alone to see—what none have seen'
And to astonish'd reason tell
The secrets of the Unsearchable!


A voice of grief and anger—
Of pity mix’d with scorn—
Moans o'er the waters of the west,
Through fire and darkness borne;
And fiercer voices join it—
A wild triumphant yell !
For England's foes, on ocean slain,
Have heard it where they fell.

What is that voice which cometh
Athwart the spectred sea!
The voice of men who left their homes
To make their children free;
Of men whose hearts were torches
For freedom's quenchless fire;
Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth
The sire of Franklin's sire.

They speak!—the Pilgrim Fathers
Speak to ye from their graves'
For earth hath mutter'd to their bones
That we are soulless slaves'
The Bradfords, Carvers, Winslows,
Have heard the worm complain,
That less than men oppress the men
Whose sires were Pym and Vane!

What saith the voice which boometh
Athwart the upbraiding waves?
“Though slaves are ye, our sons are free,
Then why will you be slaves?
The children of your fathers
Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane !”
Land of the sires of Washington,
Bring forth such men again :



The day was dark, save when the beam
Of noon through darkness broke;
In gloom I sate, as in a dream,
Beneath my orchard oak;
Lo! splendour, like a spirit, came,
A shadow like a tree'
While there I sat, and named her name,
Who once sat there with me.

I started from the seat in fear;
I look'd around in awe;
But saw no beauteous spirit near,
Though all that was I saw ;
The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears,
She mourn'd her hopes o'erthrown
Her joys cut off in early years,
Like gather'd flowers half-blown.

Again the bud and breeze were met,
But Mary did not come ;
And e'en the rose, which she had set,
Was fated ne'er to bloom'
The thrush proclaim’d, in accents sweet,
That winter's rain was o'er;
The bluebells throng'd around my feet,
But Mary came no more.

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Flowers! winter flowers!—the child is dead,
The mother cannot speak:
Oh softly couch his little head,
Or Mary's heart will break
Amid those curls of flaxen hair
This pale pink ribbon twine,
And on the little bosom there
Place this wan lock of mine.
How like a form in cold white stone,
The coffin'd infant lies :
Look, mother, on thy little one !
And tears will fill thine eyes.
She cannot weep—more faint she grows,
More deadly pale and still:
Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,
That tiny hand to fill.
Go, search the fields ! the lichen wet
Bends o'er the unfailing well;
Beneath the furrow lingers yet
The scarlet pimpernel.
Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,
Where never froze the spring
A daisy 4 Ah! bring childhood's flower |
The half-blown daisy bring !
Yes, lay the daisy's little head
Beside the little check;
Oh haste! the last of five is dead!
The childless cannot speak!

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